Page 66 of Duke of Fire
“That is generous of you,” Eliza said carefully.
“Not generous. Selfish, perhaps. I have so few friends, and I think we might suit each other quite well.” She straightened and resumed walking. “You must promise me you will call on me if you ever feel overwhelmed. London can be dreadfully isolating, even when one is surrounded by people. Especially then in fact.”
They walked in silence for a few moments, and Eliza found her mind drifting back to breakfast. To August’s tired eyes and the way his hands had shaken ever so slightly when he picked up his coffee cup. To the admission that he did not know if he was ready. To the fact that she had lied about visiting the village because she could not bear the thought of waiting for him to return from his meetings.
“You seem troubled,” Lady Wilhampton said, breaking into her thoughts.
Eliza shook her head. “Only woolgathering. Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive. But you know, it does help to speak of these things. Keeping everything bottled up inside is exhausting.” She slowed her pace as they neared the end of the garden path. “Marriage can be lonely, even when one is not alone. Perhaps especially then.”
The observation struck too close to home. Eliza looked away, fixing her gaze on a patch of daffodils that bobbed in the breeze.
“Have you found it so?” Eliza asked, more to deflect than anything else.
“Oh, constantly. My late husband was a devoted patron of the theater. He went three or four times a week, sometimes more. Always claimed it was for the culture, the refinement.” She paused, and something shifted in her expression. “Of course, I learned eventually that the theater offered other attractions beyond the stage.”
Eliza’s stomach tightened. She kept her face neutral, her steps even. “I see.”
“Men are such predictable creatures in some ways. They think they are being terribly clever, but really, they might as well wear signs around their necks.” Lady Wilhampton sighed, and it carried the weight of long experience. “My brother was much the same. Loved the theater. Could not stay away from it. He would come home smelling of perfume and tell me he had been discussing Shakespeare with some scholar or another.”
They had reached the edge of the garden now, where the path curved back toward the house. Lady Wilhampton stopped and turned to face Eliza, her expression all sympathy and concern.
“I only mention it because I would hate for you to be blindsided as I was. It is one thing to know one’s husband has interests outside the marriage. It is quite another to be the last to learn of them.” She reached out and squeezed Eliza’s hand. “You strike me as a woman who would prefer to know the truth, even when it is unpleasant.”
Eliza’s mouth had gone dry. She managed a nod though her thoughts were racing ahead, tumbling over themselves in their haste to make sense of what was being said.
“Has the Duke returned to his usual habits?” Lady Wilhampton asked, and there was nothing but gentle concern in the question. “I only ask because I happened to see him at the theater twice this past week—which surprised me, given the circumstances. Mourning is such a delicate time, and one would think he would remain close to home.”
The words landed like stones in still water, sending ripples outward in every direction. Eliza felt them spread through her chest, her stomach, her limbs.
August had been to the theater. Twice. And he had not mentioned it. Not at breakfast, not at dinner, not during any of their brief exchanges in the halls.
“I was not aware he had gone out,” Eliza said, and she was proud of how level her voice sounded.
“Oh.” Lady Wilhampton’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my dear, I have upset you. That was not my intention at all. I am certain there is a perfectly innocent explanation. Perhaps he needed the distraction. Grief affects us all differently.”
“Of course,” Eliza said.
“But if you should ever need to talk, if you should ever find that things are not quite as they seem, please do come to me. I would hate for you to suffer in silence as I did.” She took both of Eliza’s hands now, pressing them between her own. “Promise me.”
“I promise.”
“Good.” She released Eliza’s hands and stepped back, her smile returning. “Now I really must be going. I have taken up far too much of your afternoon already. But I am so glad we had this chance to speak. I do think we shall be great friends.”
She swept back toward the house, leaving Eliza standing alone on the garden path.
The afternoon sun beat down on her shoulders, warm and bright and completely at odds with the cold that had settled in her chest. She stared at the daffodils, at the gravel beneath her feet, at the house looming in the distance.
August had been to the theater. Twice.
During mourning.
Without telling her.
And Lady Wilhampton’s brother had loved the theater too. Had used it as an excuse to see his mistress.
Eliza pressed a hand to her stomach, trying to calm the churning there. This was ridiculous. She was being ridiculous. August had every right to go wherever he pleased. They were not a love match. They barely knew each other beyond the careful politeness of shared meals and passing conversations.
